


kauai's east side

by manhattan



Category: The Wolf Among Us
Genre: F/M, Goodbyes, Post-Endgame, Spoilers, Things That Could've Been, Undecided Relationship(s), Unresolved Romantic Tension, drabble-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 00:30:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5891098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manhattan/pseuds/manhattan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, he – glances at the gates, thinks of blue eyes, of soft words in a kitchen.</p>
<p>No, that’s not it; in the end, he runs after the girl with the umbrella.</p>
            </blockquote>





	kauai's east side

“I can smell the wet dog from here, you know,” Faith says, leaning against the bus stop’s glass wall. The cigarette in her mouth is unlit, probably already damp from how long she’s had it stuck between her teeth. “They probably won’t let you on the bus.”

If this were a week ago, he wouldn’t have chuckled. Today, he does, even if it sounds hollow and drained. Faith’s mouth quirks to the side, the cigarette bobbing.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bigby replies, stretching out his legs.

“You deserve a vacation,” Faith admonishes, finally taking the cigarette out of her mouth. The logo on the filter shines a dull golden – HP, the shittiest brand around, but that doesn’t stop people from bumming them off him. “How do you feel about the beach? Most dogs love it; all that sand to run around in.”

“What _is_ _it_ with you and dogs?” He isn’t entirely successful at removing the amusement from his voice.

“Maybe I have a soft spot for animals,” she says, and licks her lips. Bigby closes his eyes, presses the back of his head into the glass pane. It’s still tender; his skin is still closing the cuts. Faith elbows him: “Hey, d’you have a lighter I could borrow?”

She knows he does. He fetches it out of his pocket and hands it over. Her fingernails are blunt and they feel nice against his palm. He thinks of his own, jagged and bitten and sometimes as sharp as knives, and retracts his hand, lets it rest on his thigh.

“Thanks,” Faith says, and the smell of nicotine lingers in the humid, empty street.

-

“I don’t know,” Bigby says, leaning into the locked door of a grocery store. The exhaustion has settled into his bones, taking up permanent residence, and all he wants to do is sleep forever. “It seems like no matter what I do—“

Nerissa – Nerissa? – leans in.

“You’re not as bad as everyone says you are,” Faith’s voice whispers, bruised lips brushing against his stubble, and he wakes up in his couch, cold sweat dabbing at his forehead. Colin snores at him in reply, a string of whiskey-scented drool dripping down to pool on the wooden floor.

_Fuck_ , Bigby thinks, pressing his palms into his eyes. The blue neons bleed into the room, flickering like moribund lightbulbs. Snow had been standing in his kitchen, so close he could smell every degree of her flowery perfume, eyes bright like the midday sky.

Bigby stares at the blue neon stripes, and wishes they were green.

-

He gets a postcard from Hawaii a few days later. Snow hands it to him like a teacher would, fingers closed around one end of the card, and their hands don’t touch. The corridor is as empty as Bigby feels.

“Hey, uh, Snow,” he says, before even glancing at the colorful sunset picture, “do you think—“

“I’m sorry, Bigby,” she says, holding her dossiers close to the chest as she looks at her wristwatch, “can this wait? I’m running late.”

_Right_ , he thinks. Like he’d expected anything else other than a delaying tactic _._

“Sure,” Bigby says, reaching for his pack, “we’ll talk later,” he adds, just for her benefit. Snow gives him an awkward smile and walks off, her grip on the binders loosening enough to erase the white from her knuckles. Her heels clip as neatly as the rest of her as she goes down the hall.

He waits until she turns the corner before he turns the postcard around.

-

“You were a means to an end,” Faith tells him, signaling the bus driver in the distance. The ribbon around her neck flutters in the wind, the ends dangling. “You do realize this, right?”

“Somewhere deep down, I guess,” he replies, averting her gaze to her bag. It’s on the floor, already soggy; he wonders if she actually has clothes in there, or if it’s just for show. “This isn’t just about you, is it?”

“Sheriff, come on,” she says, half-smiling, “you’re a smart man. I’m sure you can figure it out yourself.”

Yeah, he is.

And yeah, he does – but later, when he’s not watching Faith climb the steps into the air-conditioned warmth of the bus. When he’s not nodding at her, when he’s not staring at the bus as its exhaust pipe sputters alive. No; Bigby figures it out when he gets home and no one is there, and the blue neon lights remind of another woman’s eyes.

-

The second time, he says it:

“I can get my own mail,” Bigby says, holding the sealed envelope. In front of him, Snow blinks, momentarily at a loss. “I’m not saying I’m not thankful – I am – but you don’t need to do this for me.”

“Oh,” she says, pushing that one curl of hair behind her ear. He’s always liked that little lock of hair but today his attentions lie within the tidy writing in his hands. The ink’s that mix of blue and black, just like Snow’s hair, and he thinks of Faith’s hands – calloused, nails blunted – picking out a pen and writing his name out. “You’re right.”

“You’re busy enough as it is, after all,” he says. “What’s it like, working with Bluebeard?”

“He’s overbearing and impatient,” Snow replies, frowning. “But it’s for the better, like this.”

_Of course it is_ , he thinks. The walls are paper thin and he hears the arguments from his office, when someone forgets to close the door on their way out.

“I just,” Snow begins, the little wrinkle between her brow deepening, “I don’t know, Bigby. I thought … I don’t know what I thought.”

_Bigby_ , she says, like a leash, in the privacy of darkened hallways and empty rooms _. Mr. Wolf_ , she says, proper and impersonal, when they’re not alone. His insides clench along with his jaw, but he lets it roll through.

“Yeah,” he says, and pulls out his pack, smacks it proficiently, “I don’t know what I thought, either.”

And then walks away first.

-

Faith sends him a single picture; no other message.

She’s still wearing the ribbon. The beach spreads behind her sun-kissed shoulder, barely visible under a large straw hat. On her hand, by the corner of the frame, lies his lighter, glimmering in the summer sun. The paper smells of plastic, chemicals, and sea water.

On his way home, he buys a fridge magnet in the shape of a palm tree and a cheap plastic lighter, and doesn’t even mind.


End file.
